Musings

The pines stood before me as immovable pillars, protruding from the earth like fingers beckoning to heaven. I followed their suggestion and gazed upward. Low, patchy clouds scattered the night sky in wispy formations; light, yet swollen enough to be dubbed patchy. At first I thought them to be reminiscent of a blanketing smoke. But then my still-adjusting eyes caught sight of the stars. Each visible speck of fire shot through every available gap in the clouds. The larger ones winked at me knowingly before I broke eye-contact to stare at another. 

At the pinnacle of my awe, I saw the whole sky as a woefully shredded veil worn by a beautiful bride. For as I searched, I could glimpse beyond the veil, resting my eyes upon a yet unnoticed star, or a bold shard of reflected sun. The longer I stayed, the more I discovered and was able to see of this theoretical bride. I imagined a shooting star would make a perfect tear.  

               A third scene to appear 
               In the light behind my glistening eyes
               Is that of painted cathedral panes, 
               With sacred candles burning 
               In the diluted depths within. 
            
               Steeple in a shady gown of ink 
               As a blind man's reach, 
               A chapel house glowing is
               Warmth in any wandering evening. 
               Windows tall, dim colors personified 
               By shimmering fire inside. 
               Fingertips tremble upon these, 
               And I might see many tiny, dancing 
               Druids of molded wax, 
               Fleeting, beckoning, silently singing 
               Through the images of stained glass.

Days in a fleeting, half-dreamt passing, weeks in glance at the past, and months in a memory of skies clear and warm: Autumn is a fire put out. It is a blown breath upon a match's head, whereupon the glow is vanquished and smoke remains. Flora becomes deceased, skeletons remain in the dirt, frail and dry. The smell of lightly watered dust is the aroma of the season.   

The sky is now a blanket, reflecting most beneath and all within. Wisps of our ceiling touch gracefully the skin of the earth. Anything thriving might now be considered dead, though the wind, master of motion, retains the racing pulse of my peers in space. For with the heavens now closed, I turn my eyes to the road, to my feet, and to the air. All is whispering. All prepare for the stars to reappear; this time with a bitter cold and unprotected still.

I am amused at the steady rotation on which my gaze is fixed. Because with a view of the lights I am awed. With a view of the low I am intrigued. And then I am once again awed by the heavens, but now through the cloud of my breath. In turn, spring will return my eyes to the earth, and to the movement upon it. Two fixations of my interest, two ways to imagine infinite numbers and beauty. One recites passages of their near immortality and power and blazing trek; one whispers sweetly a song of adventure. One commands incredulity; the other touches my skin and connects.
 
And in His hand all these are held, proclaiming that we, I and the stars, I and the green, I and everything from the soil beneath to the blackness beyond, are fully the Lord's. And will stare through space and wind and time until He decides my joining with Him.